A Delicate Dilemma
by Downdilly
Summary: Harry must marry by February 14. The only problem is, nobody seems to want him. Slash.
1. Default Chapter

A/N: This is my first time posting on FF. Please feel free to point out any problems.

A/N2: Parts of this in a slightly different format can be found on the HPSS Fuh-Q-Fest, slavedriven…um…run by our very dearest Kira.

A/N 3: Most of this is written, there's just a few points in the middle I'm still working on. Reviews are welcome, constructive criticism is terrific, flames I find amusing (bigotry and blinders go hand in hand—it's hilarious).

Summary: Harry must marry before the 14th of February. Only problem is, nobody seems to want him!

Warning: While there is no explicit content, this is still primarily a SLASH fiction. If you don't care for it, don't read it.

A Delicate Dilemma

"I am afraid Draco has his eye on you, Potter, and he will not relent unless you are already taken—do you have a candidate in mind?" Snape said curiously.

Severus Snape replaced the poker in its holder and sat back in ragged-edged arm chair. In the last years of the War, Potter had gone from annoying student, to annoying ally, to cautious partner and then to—what? Snape was not a man to look too closely at his feelings; they were bothersome things that generally interfered with whatever business was at hand. Better that they be swept into a closet and the door firmly locked before tossing away the key.

Even so, some small voice worried at the look on his partner's face.

_Nonsense,_ he told himself firmly, absently worrying at a loose thread hanging from the worn red velveteen. _The boy is still perfectly acceptable looking; it should be easy enough for him to find someone._

The war had left its mark on all of them, in mind as well as body. Harry Potter, famous for the lightening bolt scar on his forehead, was now equally renowned for the streak of brilliant white hair just above it, courtesy of a second encounter with Voldemort's infamous _Avada Kedava. _Unfortunately for Potter while the scar could be hidden, nothing they'd found would cover what he referred to as his 'skunk streak'.

At the moment, said streak was being alternately clutched at and raked through while Potter tried to curb his frustration. From where Snape sat hands and hair were all that was visible from behind the desk-sized bouquet of gold and silver roses the Malfoy heir had sent. _Real_ gold and _real_ silver. Curious, Snape pulled his wand from his sleeve in an effort to determine if they were roses that had been transformed or metal that had been crafted and enchanted with rose-like properties.

"Damn it all to hell!" were the first truly intelligible words to rise from behind the mass in the last several minutes. "Snape, stop experimenting in my study! If you want to know, here, take them!"

The huge basket and its contents suddenly vanished, once more leaving Snape a clear view of his frustrated partner. Green eyes blazed from behind wire-framed glasses, the umpteenth replacement of the original round lenses. The black jacket and waistcoat showed off the upper half of a trim and muscular body that was rising from behind the desk to pace back and forth across the cluttered room. The slight limp, Snape noted critically, was even less noticeable than in December when the codicil to the Potter will had appeared in the Ministry offices.

"You know damn well there hasn't been anyone!" Potter snarled, returning to the original question. The look he threw at Snape was fury born of frustration, edging into momentary guilt when he caught Snape's raised eyebrow. "No one serious, anyways," he added lamely.

"Then perhaps you ought to start looking," Snape said from his chair by the fire. "This is your 30th year, and the addition only gives you until February 14th. Which is," he added, "only slightly more than a month away."

"I can't believe this is happening," the fury died as quickly as it had come, and Snape saw something in his companion's face he hadn't seen since he'd finally defeated Voldemort on the Field of Amhurst: resignation.

Potter drifted to the fireplace and stared down into the flames, hands thrust deep into his pockets. "I don't suppose there's anyway it could be a lie? A forgery or something?" The question was more wistful habit than hopeful inquiry.

Snape felt a pang where he supposed his heart should be, and it made his answer uncommonly gentle. "Potter, your parents appeared from the afterlife to validate it. You must wed by midnight on the 14th of February of this year, or you lose the Potter estates and fortune."

"And if it wasn't for the work the estate supports I'd say to hell with it," Potter glared at his long-time sparring partner, but it was half-hearted at best. "It's not like I don't have money of my own, and barring that I can work as well as then next man, magic or muggle. What I really want to know is how the Daily Prophet got hold of the story."

"Really, Potter, don't pretend to such naivety. It was leaked, obviously, and it could have been by most anyone at the Ministry. Even in the wizarding world, the dead don't return so often as to not excite interest." Snape started to wave his hands in disgust, until a thought occurred to him and instead they froze in mid-gesture.

"Snape? What is it?" In an instant, Potter crossed the last few feet between them and dropped to his knees, eyes alight with near-hope.

Snape frowned and leaned forward slightly, studying the fine features in front of him, pale skin caught in fire, the reflection making the emerald eyes in the face glow. His eyes lifted to the infamous scar, and his hand involuntarily followed. Softly he brushed back the heavy black fringe, fingers running gently through the white streak. If there was a slight pressure against his fingers in return he never noticed it.

"Severus? What is it?" Whispered words in a hopeful voice.

"You_ are_ Harry Potter. You _must_ be wed by the 14th of February." Snape's hand dropped suddenly and he caught the end of Harry's chin, pinching it until the younger man lifted his eyes again. "Why then," he wondered aloud, "is there only one suitor you've heard from more than once?"

Harry bared his teeth and sucked in his breath. "Malfoy," he growled. "Malfoy must be stopping them somehow."

"Or at the very least discouraging them." A second question bubbled up from the depths of Snape's very Slytherin brain. "The codicil states you'll be disinheritedcut from the lineimplying that the estate will thus be dissolved since you have no heirs. Who stands to benefit if you fail to marry?"

Harry blinked, caught off-guard by the question. "I…I don't know for sure. I'd never planned _not_ to marry, simply not like this nor so soon. Wizards live hundreds of years; why rush it?"

Snape seemed to suddenly realize he still held Harry's chin tight between his fingers and jerked his hand back. "We need to know who your heir is, if there is one."

Harry blinked and drew back. "Right, right; first thing tomorrow then. But what about Malfoy?"

Snape smiled a smile cold enough to freeze the dead in their tracks, and Harry felt his own heart lift; it was the smile that meant his partner had a plan, and someone, somewhere, was about to suffer for it.

"I think it's time to see how serious Malfoy is in his courtship. Where's some parchment?"


	2. Part II

A/N: A quick thank you to all of those who took the time to read this, and an extra helping of chocolate to those who took the time to review.

* * *

Early the next morning, Hedwig found herself carrying a carefully phrased missive to a place she never thought she'd see: the offices of the Daily Prophet. Promptly and professionally she dropped her burden on the desk of the Editor in Chief, plucked an owl treat from the bowl the open-mouthed man offered, then departed in haste, anxious to brush the ink-laden air from her feathers. 

The editor sat there, dumbfounded, for an entire minute before he blinked and set down the bowl. Hastily he snatched up the parchment, juggling it a moment before unrolling it and scanning the contents.

"Stop the presses!" he bellowed, leaping to his feet. "We have a new headline!"

" 'Harry Potter Seeks True Love'," the subject of said headline read aloud that afternoon. "From an exclusive interview?" he snorted. "Who did they talk to? Hedwig?"

The owl in question opened a sleepy eye and made an owly sound of inquiry.

"Kidding, Hedwig, go back to sleep," Harry said from his chair. He scanned the rest of the article quickly, snorting at the description of him as a 'reclusive millionaire seeking to include his true love in his well-feathered nest', and muttered at the abbreviated description of the obligations the Potter Foundation had.

A familiar shiver in the front door wards told him Snape had arrived. Harry rose to meet him at the study door, paper in hand.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Harry said by way of greeting.

Snape paused in the act of pulling off his gloves and cape. Apparently he'd ridden over instead of apparating or using a coach; the chill air had put just a hint of red in his pale cheeks and a few strands of his heavy, shoulder-length hair had escaped its ribbon.

He looked, Harry thought wistfully, altogether delicious.

With the next breath, though, he tucked the thought away where the rest of his dreams and fantasies waited for the hours of darkness. Right after that he realized that Snape was looking at him expectantly, hand out.

"Err, right," he said, wildly searching his memory for what Snape could have said.

"The paper, Potter?" Snape said, arching his eyebrow and snatching the paper from Harry, the other hand draping his cape across the now-empty grasp. "Ah, still front page news; I thought as much." Snape quickly scanned the rest of the article while he made his way to his usual chair by the fire.

"Perfect," Snape announced, folding the paper and tossing it onto the ottoman the two habitually fought over. Propping his feet on the overstuffed footstool, Snape leaned back and laced his hands across his chest, smirking triumphantly.

" 'Perfect!' Are you _insane_? They've made me out to be some…some half-mad, love-starved recluse!" Harry strode across the room to stop in front of Snape, hand out. "Give me those."

Snape frowned. "Give you what? Oh," he realized, stripping off his gloves and handing them to Harry. "And while you're at it, ring for tea," Snape added while Harry crossed to the door, cape and gloves in hand. "It's devilishly cold outside."

"And yes, it _is_ perfect. By tomorrow you should be inundated with owls from hopeful applicants," he added when Harry returned, house elf in tow.

"On the small table is fine, Dobby." Harry shooed the ecstatic elf out before turning back to his guest. "But I don't _want_ hordes of hopeful applicants; I just want Malfoy to leave me alone."

"Don't be foolish, Potter; the point of the exercise is not just to thwart Malfoy. Although that, in itself, would almost be worth the trouble," Snape turned his attention to the fire in the hearth then sneered. "We've already established that you don't want to give up the Foundation, so you _must_ wed. Unless you've a likely candidate waiting in the wings, this is your best shot at finding someone quickly."

Harry leaned forward in his own chair, face in hands and elbows on knees. There was an ache in his chest so sharp he thought he'd die. Maybe now was the time?

"I always hoped," he began carefully, "to marry for love."

"Love?" Snape snorted and reached blindly for his cup, the table obligingly moving within easy reach. "Sometimes I forget how young you still are, Potter. This isn't about love," he gestured with his tea. "It's about making sure Malfoy doesn't get his greedy little hands on your money." He set the cup down with a _clink_ and pointed at Harry. "Marry Malfoy, and your days are numbered in hours. There'd be a convenient accident within the month, and the poor, bereaved widower left to carry on, with _both_ your fortunes."

Harry sighed. "You're right, you're right." No, not the time, and he regretfully tucked his feelings away for another day. He refused to admit to the possibility of never, although with the tangle his parents had thrown in his lap, his hope of happiness was fading rapidly.

"Now, once the letters start arriving, we'll go through them; weed out the obviously unsuitable, then see what we're left with." Snape leaned towards the tray and Harry passed him the plate of crab puffs before he asked.

"Wait a minute! What 'we'? I should be the one to look at them, I'm the one stuck marrying one of them," Harry said around a mouthful of his own puff. As always, the pastry melted on his tongue, the creamy filling sliding down his throat. He gave a little, "hmmm," of pleasure before he swallowed and reached for his tea. Looking up, he caught something dark and bright flickering in Snape's eyes, something that brought an answering leap in his stomach.

"Because, Potter," Snape continued, motioning for Potter to surrender his cup, "you'd fall for some chit with a sob story, and end up with her thirteen worthless relatives underfoot. I can tell the difference between truth and lie easier than you can, and have a better grounding in wizarding society. Between your sensitivity and my practicality, we should be able to find someone you can at least live with."

He picked up his own cup and plucked another of the dainty puffs from the plate. "Now tell me, what did you find out at the Ministry?"

Harry shook his head. "Nothing. Or rather, nothing outstanding. I was apparently _in testate_, which I took care of yesterday as well." He spread one hand. "Without a will, everything would go to my spouse, as I've no other family, and without a spouse, it would all revert back to the Ministry."

"Hmm." Snape sipped his tea, relaxing back into the worn chair while he thought. "At the Ministry, it'd be but a short step to Malfoy's hands, either directly or through some Ministry puppet. Perhaps he's courting you to secure his hand?"

"I suppose it's possible," Harry agreed through a mouthful of something with watercress. "But still, as long as I refuse him, and if _we_ can find a decent candidate, I don't think there'll be a problem. So," he said, dusting his hands on his trousers and grinning at Snape's little frown, "did you have something in mind for today? I found a wonderfully preserved book, circa 1100 I think, that I'd like your opinion on."

Harry hid his grin at the spark of interest in Severus' eyes. First the book, then perhaps a round or two of billiards? Severus was still ahead of him by three games, and the scenery when Severus leaned over for a difficult shot was unmatched, especially in riding gear!


	3. Part III

Again, many, many thanks to those who took the time to review! It is greatly appreciated.

A quick note (as FF frowns on long ones):

SutekhSnape: Asked about the HPSS Fuh-Q-Fest. Wave VII just concluded and posted, and Wave VIII will be opening this month I believe. Don't feel badly, I've missed a couple of deadlines as well.

Themious (Tonks5): lol! Glad you find it original. And don't worry about spelling…pobody's nerfect!

Cydah: I think I've answered one of your questions here.

Miki23: Seems to me Harry's always had an abundance of luck….

The next morning, Snape entered the silent double doors of the Potter manse to find it not only in a state of confusion, but bearing a striking resemblance to a snowed-in lodge. If said lodge was in the Alps. Mid blizzard. Missing a roof.

Letters. Piles of letters. Mountains of letters. Mostly white, but there was a fair amount of cream, and the occasional pink, lavender, and even pale blue in the mix. Letters that covered the floor of the entry drift-high and created piles of pale shadows in the distant reaches of the halls running left and right.

Shocked in spite of himself, Snape barely noticed a late owl drifting silently past and dropping another half-dozen parchments on a pile that dislodged a small avalanche of the things into a new spot on the floor.

"Severus!" Potter's voice bellowed from his study, the doors propped open by a knee-high drift of the snowy things. "Severus, by damn, you better have a solution for this!"

Hard on the heels of his words Potter himself appeared in the open doorway, clad most fetchingly in white shirtsleeves and black trousers, his red-and-gold-on-black figured vest hanging open, as messy as his disordered hair. His skin was flushed with emotion and his eyes sparkled in a way Snape hadn't seen in…well, too long.

_Did I just think of Potter as…fetching?_ Snape asked himself, momentarily startled by the thought. _Nonsense, this whole marriage thing simply has me measuring him entirely objectively as a prospective bridegroom._

Entirely. Objectively. Yes.

"Don't be ridiculous, Potter, of course I do," he said, striding past his host and into the study. "You would too, if you'd simply think about it logically for a moment. And button your vest, you look absurd." Snape quashed the odd pang that shot through him when Potter hastily complied.

The study was in worse shape than the hallway, something Snape hadn't thought possible until he'd actually seen it. Letters here weren't just drift high, they were _man_-high. There were piles along the walls, and the desk was completely covered. The only thing in the room still clear of paper, parchment and ink were the chairs by the fire. Potter had evidently been taking breakfast there when the deluge occurred from the remains on the serving tray. A stack of official looking papers lay next to it, at least one of which bore the Ministry seal.

'Well?" Harry demanded, buttoning his last button when he reentered the room.

Snape snorted. "You start with the desk. Sort them out, male and female. Put aside anything from anyone you know, or that you think I know. I'll deal with the hallway." He turned to step back out of the study. "And no, Potter, I _don't_ know everyone under God's Creation. If you're going to mutter, do so _quietly_; that _is_ the point, after all" _You'd think he'd at least remember how to do that!_ Snape added to himself.

Potter's muttering faded in his wake as he retreated to his desk. In the entry, Snape debated a moment before turning left with a shrug and walking to the end of the hall where the piles faded to a mere single layer. Circling his wand, Snape gathered the stray parchments together into a pile, then gave his wand an elegantly negligent wave.

"_Aishiteru!"_ he commanded, and the first pile dissolved into a handful of fluffy gray ash. "Hmph," Snape muttered to himself while the flecks of dust settled. "Well, let the house elves take care of it; it's what they're here for."

"_Aishiteru!"_

The command cracked the air and Harry dropped to the ground, rolling under his desk and pulling his wand in the same motion. Heart pounding, his eyes flicked left and right, looking for whatever Severus was either attacking or defending against. The pile of letters scattered with him, obscuring his vision more badly than the worst snowfall ever had. Inhaling softly he held his breath, sucking in the faintest scent of char while he strained to hear past the study door.

_"Aishiteru!"_

The command came from slightly closer this time. Certain that nothing hostile was in his study, Harry slithered carefully across the floor, this time grateful for the piles of mail that gave him additional cover. Still, there was no sound of hostile fire, nothing to indicate that whatever Severus was attempting to incinerate was returning spells.

So, nothing alive then. A trap?

Before, Harry would laugh off the idea of a trap-spell getting past his wards; but new spells were still being developed, and since The War the idea was not as outlandish as it once would have seemed to him.

An agonizing stretch later, Harry reached the door and cautiously rose to first knees, then feet.

_"Aishiteru!"_

The spell exploded under Harry's nose. He yelped and leaped backwards, wand moving in the general defensive counter-pattern for a fire-based spell. Dust and ash drifted through the air, the pile of letters Harry had been hiding behind disintegrating. Silence reigned for a handful of seconds in the aftermath, and Harry met it poised for attack or defense.

"Potter," his opponent's voice was dangerously low and silky. "What do you _think_ you're doing? You feather brained, lack-witted, senseless…idiot!"

He'd forgotten over the years, Harry realized, that Snape was the only person he'd ever known able to put sibilants in 'idiot'.

"D'you realize," Harry said, "that you're the only person I know who can get an 'ess' in 'idiot'?"

_Oh God, I did **not** just say that!_ he thought, dropping his head to his hands. When the expected scathing retort failed to materialize, he peeked up through his fingers. Oh, Severus was scowling all right, but it didn't seem to be…angry. No, more the scowl he'd gotten when he realized that Dumbledore didn't just act barmy, the old man actually _was_.

"Potter, are you…feeling…all right?"

Severus suddenly looked as confused as Harry was feeling. Was that an actual expression of-concern? Could Severus be-worried about him?

"I'm sure all this has you a bit-overset." Harry watched alarm chase away confusion as Severus took a cautious step backward. "Perhaps we should finish later?"

Harry burst out laughing, clutching at his side when he couldn't catch his breath. "You…face…poof!" He waved his hand at the fireside chairs and staggered in that direction. A careful touch on his elbow to steady him sobered Harry like nothing else. He'd known for years, _forever_, that Severus was uncomfortable with emotional extremes, and he'd spent years schooling his own expressions to something more moderate. But every now and then, those restrictions broke and he'd find himself in a position like this, scared of scaring off the man he loved beyond reason.

Even when that man denounced love as the worst kind of foolishness.

_Then I'd rather die a fool,_ Harry declared again, dropping into the chair and reigning in his laugh. He waved Severus to the other and watched the man ease into it.

"Sorry, sorry," Harry finally muttered, stifling a last giggle. "But the look on your face. What do you think you were doing?"

"I?" The frown was back. "I was simplifying the matter. Look, Potter, the letters on your desk are the earliest ones to arrive, correct?"

Harry nodded, waiting to see where Severus' logic lead them this time.

"As the morning deliveries wore on, the piles moved further and further out, until those furthest from the study were the last received. Thus, you should only concern yourself with those eager enough to get their word in early."

"Ah, but wouldn't those be the most ambitious ones? While the later ones would be those who put some thought into their words? Attempted to make themselves more…appealing?"

"Exactly." Severus rose and rang for a house elf. "Tea," he commanded when the elf appeared, "and some of those crab puffs from yesterday." He waited until the elf whisked itself off before he continued. "Ambitious ones are easier to deal with, especially _stupidly_ ambitious ones, who would've dashed off anything in order to be considered. Later ones will, indeed, be more appealing, as their writers will have taken the time to think what might bring you to see them in a more favorable light. Much more dangerous."

Harry nodded, slowly and a bit sadly. "I can see it," he agreed, staring into the fire that always burned in his study hearth. He turned back, studying the tall, slender figure at the bell pull. Black on black on black; the perpetual mourning that the master potion maker never put off and never explained, making his too pale skin turn sallow in the lamplight.

"But what of those who took that time because they truly _cared_?" Harry asked.

Severus snorted. "Really, Potter, who's still alive that knows you that well?" He turned to direct the house elf with the tea tray to set it on the table and remove the remnants of breakfast. He never saw the stricken look on Harry's face, nor the way his lips moved silently.

_You are,_ Harry whispered to himself, _you do._ Harry swallowed hard and turned his attention to the tray.


	4. Part IV

A/N: A couple people have noticed the spell that Snape cast to destroy the excessive post Harry received. It's not Japanese, it's…Mongolian. Yeah, that's the ticket, Mongolian. Ancient Mongolian. Pre-Atilla. And it means…um…um…"explode as my passion for you".

And if you believe that, I've got a bridge to sell you.

Seriously, it was a subconscious slip on my part. Telling, no?

Thank you, every single one of you, for taking the time to read and especially review.

"Hey."

"Hmmm?"

Snape looked up from the pile of letters he was sorting and stretched. He might not be old for a wizard, but that didn't make the floor any more comfortable, and he knew his bum wasn't going to forgive him easily for long hours on the hard floor. "Hmm?"

Potter stood up from the other side of the rapidly diminishing mound they'd piled by the fireplace and flopped down in his chair, examining one of the hundreds of envelopes still left with a fond, slight smile. Snape stretched his back while he watched Potter tear the thing open like an eager child and devour the contents.

"Potter?"

A soft, wistful smile spread across the younger man's face as he scanned the contents a second time. Sighing, Snape examined the next three envelopes and tossed two of them in the fire to join the pile of ash already accumulated. The third one he set aside in the pile for secondary consideration, as the writer was unknown to him, and thus at least marginally likely to not want Potter for his money or fame.

_Or at least not **strictly** for his money or fame,_ Snape told himself a bit sourly.

He'd convinced Potter that he was right about the bulk of the letters, but the boy—_man,_ his subconscious reminded him—had insisted on reviewing all the letters in the entire study. While the pile on and around the desk had been cut back to a manageable two-or three hundred, there was still better than a quarter of the study left, and the fireplace had been emptied of ash three times.

Snape flicked a glance at his partner from under lowered lashes before he stealthily pulled his wand and aimed it at the largest pile still to be sorted

"Severus, no!"

"_Aishiteru!_"

"Severus!" Harry sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "You agreed we'd go through the letters in here by hand."

"Really, Potter, you must have three hundred letters to go through. Surely somewhere in there is someone you can live with, especially as you're not likely to have enough time to actually meet more than thirty or so. And speaking of which," Snape came to his feet with a bone-cracking stretch, ignorant of the way the firelight warmed his skin and gleamed along his hair, "it looks like you have a likely candidate there."

Snape nodded in Harry's direction. The letter was still clutched in his partner's hand, and at Snape's reminder Harry hastily smoothed it out against his thigh.

"It's from Seamus. Finnegan." Harry looked up with an expression that was half-shy and all fatuous. "He thinks we might, and I quote, 'deal well together'."

"Finnegan?" Snape searched his memory before remembering the boy. "Didn't he wed a Hufflepuff some time back?"

Harry gave a short laugh. "No, a muggle, but I'll grant you she _looked_ like she should be in Hufflepuff. He says she divorced him a bit later; apparently she wasn't quite as happy with the wizarding world as he thought."

"Ran off with the milk man, eh?" Snape sneered. Leave it to Finnegan to lose a spouse to mundanity; didn't the twit realize mixed marriages rarely worked? Just because his own parents had managed, didn't mean the majority did. "Still, you do at least know him." And didn't that thought nag at something in the back of his mind.

"Whatever the reason, I'm putting him in the 'definite possibilities' pile." Harry leaned over and dropped the letter in the small stack that held a half-dozen others. Snape noted the first faint smile on his partner's face since last Hallow's Eve, when Potter's parents had materialized and revealed the contents of their sealed codicil.

Snape's mind provided him a memory fresh from that morning, of Potter bent over with laughter, barely able to breath let alone stagger to his seat by the fire. His eyes had been brilliant with humor and tears, face flushed, the lines put there by pain and stress erased in a moment of sheer ridiculousness.

"Well, you've your work cut out for you here; I'm off for supper and the new Brewers Monthly has come in. I'll ride over in the morning and see how you've gotten on. You should start setting first dates on those, no later than day after tomorrow." Snape rang for his cape and gloves, but the thought of supper alone twisted his stomach. Perhaps he'd go out? The Cauldron was fairly tolerable, and the people there knew better than to disturb him.

"Severus, you're not staying for supper?" Harry rose from his chair and crossed to the door, an unreadable look on his face. "It's the least I can do for all your help."

Snape waved him off, something amazingly like panic beginning to grow in his chest. He needed to get out of here, away from the situation. The ash drifting in the air and the smell of char from hundreds of pages of burned parchment was making breathing difficult. Fresh air was definitely called for; fresh air and an evening out would be just the thing, followed by a quiet brandy and his magazine.

Yes. Pefect.

"Oh, Potter," Snape heard himself say as he pulled on his gloves and reached for the outside door, ignoring the house elf standing next to it. "You should really think about smiling more often."

Horrified, Snape managed to snap his teeth closed on the words, _it looks good on you,_ and forced himself not to rush down the steps to his horse. He caught a quick glance of his partner's stunned expression before he reined Crow around and trotted off down the drive.

_Damn, damn, damn. Why on earth would I say something like that? Stress, it must be that. After all, it's the least I owe his parents, to see he's settled with someone who'll be tolerable to live with._

Harry closed the entry door, absently waving the wards back into place and nodding to the elf nearby, puzzled by his imperturbable friend's actions. Suddenly Severus' last words sank in; Severus had noticed his smile? He'd noticed! Yes!

Harry pumped his fist in the air twice, shouting "Yes! Yes!"

"M-m-m-master Harry?" The foyer elf squeaked.

Harry laughed; maybe there was hope yet. "It's all right, Tilly. Tell Dobby and the others I'll eat in my study. I have some letters to write."


	5. Part V

Thanks once again to all you wonderful readers and reviewers. You give me hope and much needed encouragement.

SutekhSnape: Wave 7 was to be posted on March 31. I don't know what the delay has been, although Kira has been under the weather. The list now purges after each Wave, and registration supposedly opened again on April 1. Try Kira's site for further.

USA-Jeanette: LOL! I can't do MPreg (one of my few squicks), but there are ways around it. I guess I'll have to wait and see.

This is, properly, two updates, but as I've got to return to work tonight I thought I'd throw both of these up here now. And really, if the course of true love always ran smoothly, I'd need to find another hobby….

888888888

Snape forced his mind back to the article he was reading for the fourth time in the last ten minutes.

He sat in his own comfortably appointed study, his favorite magazine on his knee, a glass of fine brandy next to him. His meal at the Cauldron had been—forgettable. Roast pork, some kind of over-cooked greenery and an indifferent pudding. He'd eaten it at a small table in the corner, as was his habit, keeping his back to the wall. Even the wine, one he normally enjoyed, had seemed…flat.

_Most likely not corked properly,_ he thought sourly, attempting for the fifth time to concentrate on the article in hand.

Odd, though, that when he ate there with Potter, the food was always quite good. On the other hand, he _had_ been eating there with _Harry Potter_; no doubt they put out their best just for him. Likely the boy hadn't even realized they were treating him differently.

He snorted at the thought, pausing to sip at his brandy. If there was one thing he'd come to accept about his young partner, it was that Potter neither sought, nor expected, special treatment because of who he was; that he considered, in fact, the ordinary courtesy one man extended another to be treatment above and beyond what he deserved. That the reaction had persisted into adulthood Snape had found admirable; that it was still genuine, nothing less that amazing.

An attitude he'd gotten, Snape had learned, from being raised by some of the most disgusting muggles Snape had ever had the displeasure of rescuing from Voldemort. May he rot in hell for all eternity. And that damned Dursley with him

The feel of slick paper sliding down his leg jerked Snape back to reality and he lunged for the magazine, snatching at it just too late. Liquid sloshed across his hand and onto his slacks before he remembered the glass he still held.

Frustration and rage flashed through him, a hot flood of blackness, and with a growled curse Snape flung his glass into the fireplace. The sudden flare from the brandy and the music of shattering glass soothed something in him and the heat washed away as quickly as it had come. Pained embarrassment filled him at his lack of control, and he snatched up his wand to wave away the mess.

The last of the glass safely disposed of, he turned his attention to why he'd suddenly become so angry. Long years had made any sudden change of mood in himself or others suspect. But Voldemort was safely dead, the last of his followers imprisoned or fled, and of those who had fled none were strong enough to influence him so without help. Which left…

"Potter," Snape growled, pacing the length of the study, the ruddy light casting a demonic glow across the long planes of his face. "Undoubtedly it's this mess he's gotten himself into, and pulled me in to help." Snape sneered at his reflection in a side mirror. "If the man—boy—hadn't waited until the last minute, by now the whole thing would have been peaceably settled and whatever whey-faced, pug-nosed chit he'd chosen would be whelping the first of their ten brats. Well, I'm done with it," he announced to his mirror self. "Potter has had the last bit of help from me he's going to get."

Casting around for a distraction, Snape's eye fell on the fallen magazine. "A bit of brewing should do the trick," he said, sneer softening. At that moment his head chose to give him a sharp warning pang, the sure follow-on of strong emotions. "Something to calm the nerves, as well as ease this damnable headache," he said. Snatching the magazine from where it lay he headed out the door and down to his basement lab.

"This will turn the trick in no time."

"Master Harry! You must come! Master Harry!"

Startled from sleep, Harry shot bolt upright, half springing from his bed and bringing his wand to bear before he'd blinked twice.

Squinting slightly he half-focused on Dobby, crouched by his pillow and wringing his hands. The second thing he noticed was a distinctly blackened house-elf that wasn't one belonging in Potter Manor.

"_Accio_ glasses," he commanded, sliding them on when they landed in his hand. "Dobby, what's going on? Who is this?"

"Oh, Master Harry, Dobby is bringing you Tate, from Master Harry's friend's house." The head elf of the Potter household shoved the sooty figure forward.

"Tate?" Even knowing who it was, to Harry the elf was barely recognizable under the soot and grime. Severus never allowed his elves to wallow, no matter how much they craved punishment. The singed elf was obviously in extreme distress, so Harry pulled his slacks on while he waited for the elf to explain.

"Please, Master Potter, sir! Master is in trouble! Big trouble!"

"What trouble, Tate?" Harry demanded, although from the elf's state he could easily deduce what was wrong. "Was there an explosion?"

"Explosion! Yes, exactly, Master Potter is so quick in his mind! So amazing!" The elf wrung its long-fingered hands together.

"Never mind that, Tate! Did the lab blow up?" Harry threw on a jacket over his bare chest, hastily buttoning it as additional protection from—whatever.

"Yes! Yes, Master Potter, and Tate cannot get through the wards to his master! Master Severus could be dying! Could be a deader, like, like last week's fishes! Oh please, Master Potter—"

"Hush, now! I'll bring him back. Dobby," he said to his own elf, "get a message to Poppy Pomfrey to come here. That Severus has been in a lab accident of unknown origin. I'll be back as fast as I can Apparate. The wards will be down until I get back, so be careful!"

Suiting actions to words, Harry dropped the wards around his own house and disappeared, only to reappear less than an instant later outside the open front doors of Snape Manor. Neither smoke nor flames were visible in doors or windows, but there was a very distinctive _odor, _that could be nothing but a potion gone wrong.

Charging up the steps and through the doors Harry felt the prickle down his spine that was the Snape wards noticing his passage and allowing him through. A stranger would have had bits removed and tossed into a variety of dimensions. A most excellent way of keeping used broom salesmen away from one's door, Severus had once remarked in passing; the smirk had told Harry the man spoke from experience.

Left, right and down, two rights then down again, Harry ran through the house he knew almost as well as his own. At the end of the last hallway was the reinforced door to Severus' lab, tiny wisps of purple smoke escaping from popped wards and hinges, the door itself bowed outward from the force of whatever blast had happened. There was a sweetish odor on the air, almost like…

_Lilac? What the devil were you brewing with lilac? _Harry wondered. In too much of a hurry to finesse his power by drawing his want, Harry brought raw power to bear and blasted the door into its component atoms. Dark purple smoke rolled out and over him through the enlarged hole in a rush. Sickly sweet and choking, one breath was enough to start his eyes watering and lungs burning. God knew what shape Severus was in.

Harry went in low to the ground, covering his mouth with his sleeve. Even then the fumes were so thick it was impossible to see. Closing his tearing eyes, Harry began sweeping his other arm from one side to the other, trying to draw the lab as he remembered, from long nights watching—and sometimes helping—Severus with some batch of potion needed for the War, or the occasional bit of research.

_Sinks and vents to the rear, why aren't they working? Shit! That stings! Glass! Alambrics and other distillings to the right, storage on the left. Workbenches…ah! _

His hand swept across something that was neither glass nor wood but cloth and lumpy. Finally! Unthinking, Harry took a deep breath against the coming effort, feeling it rip at his lungs like London on a smoggy day. He choked and gasped, trying to inhale again while he fumbled to grab what he knew was Severus. Heaving the taller man over his shoulder he staggered for the door, lightheaded and desperate for clean air.

The air in the hallway was only slightly clearer, but enough that Harry could hack the last of the tightness from his chest. A _whoosh _came from the ruined lab and the smoke and smell finally started to fade.

_Oh, of course **now **the bloody vents kick in!_

Harry gave the older man a quick once over, finding that the smears of blood on Severus' face and back of his hands were superficial, and the reddened spots would no doubt heal quite nicely on their own. But it was Severus' limpness that worried him the most, even more than the single serious injury, a black-edged burn on the potion master's left palm.

_Pulse and breathing are steady, if a bit shallow,_ Harry thought, _but he's so limp, it's like he's…ah!_

Asleep. That would explain the lilac smell, Harry realized. A Sweet Dreams potion. Harry frowned; Sweet Dreams wasn't normally volatile. What could have caused such an explosion? This was a potion Severus could have brewed even while under its influence, what could have happened that the man would slip so?

"Tate!" Harry called, knowing the house elf's name would summon him.

In an instant the bedraggled elf appeared, tear tracks making clean streaks down his cheeks while he continued to wring his hands. "Oh yes, sir, Harry Potter sir! Master!"

The little elf squeaked when he spotted Severus on the floor behind Harry. He threw himself on Severus' inert form, wailing his misery. "Oh he's dead! Dead! Dead, and Tate is without a Master! What shall he do? What shall Tate do?"

"Get a grip on yourself, Tate! He's not dead." Harry shoved aside the urge to shake the elf back to his senses. More gently he continued. "Tate, go and pack a bag for Master Snape and bring it to my house. Madame Pomfrey will be there to make sure he recovers."

"But he looks so…so…dead-like," Tate dropped the hand he'd been chaffing. It hit the floor with a _thud._

"Tate!" Harry exclaimed. Pulling his wand he quickly cast a levitation charm and began maneuvering Severus' limp body to the front hall. Except for the pervasive smell of lilac, the air was clear of traces of smoke.

_I'll have Dobby come over and check the lab tomorrow, see what needs to be repaired or replaced. It's the least I can do for—_. Harry cut himself off. _He's going to be fine. It's just a sleeping potion after all._ He refused to linger on the number of sleeping potions that were just one step short of death; potions that, misused, were a _cause_ of death.

Outside in the chill air Harry felt a lethargy he'd not noticed slide away. He shook himself like a dog coming out of a pond, then gasped at the wave of dizziness the move engendered. Once the world stopped rocking he waved Severus' body into an upright position and wrapped one arm around the unconscious man,

"Keep the wards up, Tate!" he called to the little elf still wringing his hands while standing on the portico. "I'll send Dobby by with word as soon as there is one." Before the elf could start bemoaning his fate yet again, Harry Apparated.

And reappeared with a small poof! of displaced air and a gasp as the displacement cancelled out his levitation spell, dropping Severus' full weight in his arms. Within seconds though that weight was lightened and he caught a glimpse of the ever-capable Poppy Pomfrey over Severus' shoulder.

"Let me help you with him. That's it, one arm for each of us; now onto the stretcher," she continued briskly. The two of them managed the taller man onto the nearby stretcher where it floated patiently. "Very good, Mr. Potter; now tell me what you know while we get him inside." She tapped the side of the stretcher with her wand and made a little shooing motion at it to set it drifting along.

"He was in the lab...brewing…something with lilac. I think it may have been a Sweet Dreams potion."

"Couldn't have been," Madame Pomfrey declared. "Severus Snape hasn't exploded a Sweet Dreams since he was five."

Harry stopped dead on the steps. "Five? Really?" He shook his head again to clear it, wondering why the world looked so hazy, although the lack of rapid spinning was an improvement. "How do you know that?"

"He never told you?" She looked back over her shoulder before pointing the stretcher through the doorway. "All wizarding families are related to one degree or another, although sometimes you have to go almost back to the line founders. Severus and I are a little closer than most, since I'm his second cousin thrice removed; I grew up with his mother. Come along now, Mister Potter, it won't do him any good to have the both of you down ill. Nor me, either," she added, the tails of her apron disappearing into the foyer.

"His cousin?" Harry started to follow Poppy inside then stopped dead when the porch decided to slide three steps left just before he stepped on it. _And really,_ he thought to himself, _it should know better. _

_Wait a minute! I never enchanted the porch to do that!_ he realized, studying the slowly swinging steps intently.

He could just hear the medi-witch asking him something from too far away to hear the words clearly, when the world faded out to a violet-grey blur.


	6. Part VI

**_Fifty reviews?_** Oh, my word! I love you people! I don't think I've ever gotten 50 reviews for anything!

Thank you so much, each and every one of you, from the one-worders to the longest ones. They all mean a great deal to me.

CatSamwise: If you recall where you thought you'd seen something similar, I'd appreciate it muchly if you could send me the link? I'd never want to infringe on someone else's hard labor.

SutekhSnape: Excellent. Hope we'll be seeing you in Wave VIII, the Sex and Sensuality challenge.

Again, thank you one and all. Hopefully, this little bit will clear up some questions; let's just say driving isn't the only thing that doesn't mix well with drinking.

8-8-8-8-8-

The first time he woke it was to the sound of a blacksmith hammering next to his ear; clang-clang! Clangity-cla-clang!

_Avada Kedava!_ He sounded the words in his head, willing them with all his might to strike down the person responsible for the infernal racket.

Clang! Skkreeeeeee-clang!

_Damn!_ He cursed, before diving back into quiet blackness.

8-8-8-8-

The second time was only slightly quieter, as a voice he distantly recognized as Potter's was bellowing at someone, and that someone, a vaguely familiar female voice, was shrieking back fit to shatter glass.

"How is he?" Harry whispered, leaning close to Madame Pomfrey's ear.

The medi-witch stopped knitting for a moment, the faint clicking of her needles absent for the first time in days before answering just as softly. "Much better. He awoke for a few moments earlier, and in fact," she glanced over at the man lying motionless in the bed, "he's awake now. Mostly," she added.

Harry followed her look with one of his own and frowned. "How can you tell? He hasn't moved an inch."

_Monitoring spell, you idiot!_ Snape muttered in his head. For God's sake, didn't the boy—_man!_ his subconscious reminded him—remember _any_ of his training? Voldemort hadn't been dead _that_ long.

Madame Pomfrey patted the young man's face and set aside her knitting. "Monitoring spell of course. Now if you'll give me a hand with him, I'll just give him a little something for the headache I'm sure he has. I'd wager it's several times worse than the one you had."

_Are you insane, woman? Anything you could give me would kill me!_

"Is that wise, Poppy? He got a pretty heavy dose of…whatever it was that knocked him out," Harry asked, moving to the bed and sitting on it carefully. "Severus always warned me about mixing sleeping draughts with pain relief ones."

_Well Hallelu—what?_ Confusion joined the throbbing pain in his head and body as the bed dipped and he found himself fighting paralyzing nausea. He…would…not…vomit! It would be just too, too humiliating. Even with every bit of his steel-clad control in place it was a near miss as he fought his gorge back down. Warmth and hardness insinuated itself behind him and lifted his head and shoulders. Dizziness swamped him and he lost track of time, only to rejoin reality resting on something cool and silken, a comforting thud-thud echoing gently and distracting him from his headache.

"Here we go," Madame Pomfrey said, sliding one end of a straw into Snape's mouth and removing her finger from the other, letting the trapped liquid flow down her patient's throat. Cool, sweetened mint and the bitter tang of white willow encouraged him to swallow. He felt the potion sliding down his throat and outward from his stomach, unknotting muscles and soothing irritated nerves.

_Or most of them,_ Snape thought. He had four or five he saved for special people and their irrational acts, and they couldn't be eased by any such potion. Still, no doubt they would stop bothering him as well once he'd died of an overdose from mixing medications.

"Poppy," Harry started, eyeing the potion she continued to drip patiently into Snape's mouth. "What is that?"

_Mint and willowbark, comfrey and…goldenseal?_ Snape rolled the aftertaste around in his mouth, considering.

"Not a Pepper-Up potion?" Harry craned his head to watch their patient's reaction, clearly expecting steam to erupt from Severus' ears at any moment.

"Heavens no! He doesn't need it, and that _would_ be dangerous, giving his heart that great a start." Poppy tsked at him. "Not that the lump has one," she added, only half under her breath.

"Poppy!" Harry scolded.

_I heard that!_ Snape snarled. And why couldn't he get his eyes open? Come to think of it, why couldn't he _move_? The clink of glass on glass distracted him, and he gave up on opening his eyes. If only they'd mention what happened, he'd be able to cure himself.

"Harry, would you mind staying with him a bit while I pop over to Hogwarts?" he heard the witch ask from further away. "There are some things I want to pick up, since this seems to be turning into a long term situation."

_Long term?_

"Sure," Harry's voice echoed from the chest under Snape's head.

How long had he been unconscious? How long had Potter and Pomfrey been watching him? And how had they known to come get him?

"Your house _is_ on the Floo Network, isn't it?" Madame Pomfrey asked. Snape could hear her moving around.

_No doubt rearranging everything. I'll never get it straightened out,_ Snape grumped. _Wait a second…Floo Network ?**Your** house? Where **am** I?_

Potter chuckled under him, bouncing his head painfully. "It is, but only certain rooms. Try the hearth in the study; it's the most reliable."

"All right then, I'll return directly," Pomfrey replied, and then came the sound of a door shutting softly but firmly.

Quiet returned to the room and Snape felt his muscles slowly unknotting, helped by the warmth now drifting from the silk that surrounded him and the potion in him. The steady, gentle thudding and rhythmic rise and fall under his head, smooth silk and comforting heat under his head lulled him back towards sleep.

His pillow suddenly rose and fell sharply, jarring him back towards consciousness, then jounced him around when Potter chuckled grimly.

"Ah, Sev, if you could see me now you'd laugh your ass off," Potter's voice came from overhead.

_You might want to share the joke before you assume so, Potter._

"First date tonight," Potter continued, "and I feel like a total idiot. Thank God Poppy was here, or I'd never have made it." He chuckled again, then sighed.

_First date? You're blathering worse than usual, Potter, explain yourself._

First date, indeed! They'd only finished going through the letters just after lunch. Impossible for Potter to have already proposed a date with one of his prospective spouses, let alone gotten responses back.

"You should have seen the girls, Sev, when I told them. I thought Ginny and Hermione were going to pull me apart like a wishbone until Poppy interceded. I wasn't sure my wardrobe was going to survive the fight, but they finally decided on grey and I look ridiculous, although they all assure me that's not true. I wish I could get your opinion."

Another sigh lifted Snape's head and shoulders before fingers he knew were strong enough to snap bone began to card gently through his hair, moving the few strands that had fallen onto Snape's face back into place. They caught in a snarl and there was silence while Snape imagined Potter's face as he concentrated on separating the strands before smoothing them.

"It's been three days, Sev. I wish you'd wake up. You're starting to worry me, and even though Poppy isn't saying anything, you're worrying her, too."

Snape heard the door open and close, then quiet footsteps in the room.

"Mr. Potter? Harry?" Madame Pomfrey's voice, softened to sickroom level.

"Here, Poppy." Cloth on cloth rasped Snape's ears and he lost time while his head was gently jostled then settled against body-warmed cotton. The material smelled slightly spicy, much as Har--Potter had when he'd been playing pillow.

"Best hurry along, dear. Don't want to keep the young lady waiting."

"I don't see why not, Poppy; it's not like she's going to stand me up."

Snape scowled mentally at the bitterness he heard in Potter's voice. Maybe the brat had been serious about giving it all up to escape an unwanted marriage?

_Of course he was!_ Snape snarled at himself, _Potter is bloody Gryffindor incarnate, believing in love and duty, and that the two should go hand in hand no matter what the universe dictates. Idiot child!_

More rustling, and Snape could imagine Pomfrey giving Potter a sympathetic hug.

"Go on now, soonest started is soonest done," Pomfrey told the young man she cared for like a son. "I'll be right here with him until you get back."

Snape pictured Potter's nod of agreement as he walked to the door.

"Oh," Potter's voice came from where Snape had heard the door earlier. Was his hearing getting sharper? "I should have that list of ingredients that were exposed in the explosion for you tomorrow."

"Good, good; we'll start on it first thing. Now run along, Mr. Potter, enough stalling."

"All right; 'night Poppy."

The door opened and closed, and Snape felt himself sinking back into darkness, the strain of keeping himself awake and aware pulling at him. The last thing he knew was Madame Pomfrey's ever-annoying tongue cluck and her cool touch on his forehead.


	7. Part VII

Many, many thanks to you who've taken the time to spend time with my little story. Wasn't planning on updating today, but I'm sick so what the heck!

Immortal Memories: bookmark? I'm honored (bows)

Cat Samwise: From the similarities, it sounds like you're remembering my original posting on the HPSS Fest site. If not, I'm sure I'll hear about it. This is the continuation and conclusion of that original posting.

Now, we must have a villain….

8-8-8-8-

Abigail Mifflin took the opportunity afforded by her companion's absence to fluff her ringlets and adjust her dress. The peach-coloured confection, adorned with strategically placed lace rosettes, set off her pale skin and light brown hair to perfection, she thought contentedly. Small cap sleeves at the point of each shoulder drew the eye down naturally to her ample bust. Abigail smothered a giggle as she recalled the stunned admiration in Harry's--_her_ Harry's, she thought--eyes when he'd first stood to greet her.

She'd swished gracefully across the restaurant, the full skirt showing her Bottacellian figure to perfection. It was, she knew, a complete success; all eyes following her progress and observing the Man-Who-Triumphed bowing slightly over her hand.

Abigail pouted; she'd hoped for a kiss to her hand, but no doubt there would be time for that later. It showed he had restraint, she decided, restraint and decorum, to handle their first meeting so elegantly. He'd been becomingly attentive too, eyes fixed firmly on her face as she'd regaled him with interesting tidbits about their fellow diners, all of them celebrities and heroes.

She lifted a forkful of moussecake and savored it, throwing quick little glances around the room to make sure everyone knew that _she_, Abigail Mifflin, of much maligned and despised Hufflepuff, was dining at _Rene's_ with _Harry Potter_. She dimpled when a  
man, old from his white hair despite the young face under it, lifted his wine glass to her in salute. She was well aware, when the man turned back to his companions, that he was talking to them about her

_**Everybody** will be talking about me,_ she told herself a little smugly. Rene's was frequented by the _creme de la creme_ of wizarding society, and that naturally included Harry Potter's wife!

Abigail frowned slightly, beginning to wonder what had happened to her fiance, and in the next instant smoothed the look from her face. Frowns caused wrinkles, Mama said, and a wrinkly forehead wasn't something Abigail wanted.

"Miss Mifflin, isn't it?"

The voice that drawled her name was male, the accent pureblooded and aristocratic. Abigail looked up and met the pale grey eyes of the young-old man from across the room.

_Not old_, was her first thought, realizing what she'd taken for white was really a blond so pale it _looked_ white.

"Have we met before?" she blurted out and blushed, hearing her second thought escape from between her teeth. "I...I mean...it's just..." She drew in a deep breath, lifting her chest as Mama had taught her, and regained her composure. "You seem awfully familiar, sir."

The tall man half-closed his eyes as he regarded her, giving her equal time to study him. Abigail's wide doe eyes took in the magnificently tailored waistcoat of dark green with tiny dragons figured on it in lighter greens. Lace fell like spray from a waterfall at neck and cuffs, and she wanted desperately to see if his trousers fitted him as well as the waistcoat but doing so would mean taking her eyes off the man's face.

His lips twitched and the blond man made a noise in his throat. "Perhaps you're remembering me from school, Miss Mifflin; I was only a few forms ahead of  
you. May I?" He waved his hand at the table and Abigail nodded absently, trying to put the clues together. Her eyes were caught by one of the tiny dragon figures, when it suddenly reared back and breathed tiny crimson flames at one of the others.

School. Hogwarts. Different form, older. Blond hair, pale grey eyes, aristocrat. Dragons.

"Draco Malfoy!" Abigail gasped, starting back against her seat involuntarily.

"Very good, Miss Mifflin."

Malfoy tipped his head in acknowledgement and slid into Harry's seat across from her at the small table. What had seemed romantic and intimate moments before suddenly felt like a closet. She watched Draco Malfoy pour himself a drink from the bottle of wine the steward had left. Abigail felt her eyes widen and she shrank slightly, a mouse avoiding the gaze of a very hungry cat.

Or a snake.

Oblivious to her distress, Malfoy examined the wine in the light, holding it up and tipping the glass slightly before sniffing it. He paused as if considering, then finally sipped and nodded his approval.

"Excellent," he said, but Abigail wasn't sure if it was to her or himself. "The '97, I'd say." Malfoy sipped again, turning the bottle to examine the label. "Right again!"

Harry Potter had faced down He-Who-Would-Not-Be-Named, and Death Eaters, and Dark Creatures, and even Slytherins, but Abigail Mifflin was acutely aware she was _not_ Harry Potter, and the sight of Draco Malfoy, the ultimate Slytherin, so Slytherin even the Dark Lord had not known Malfoy would betray him, sitting across from her at a restaurant trapped her in icy fear.

The blond continued to the study the bottle in his hand for a few moments more. "I had no idea Rene's even carried the '97. I wonder if Potter brought his own, instead?" A slight frown crossed his pale face as he considered.

"Is...is there...something I can...do for you...Mr. Malfoy? Sir?" Abigail heard her voice tremble and knew Draco Malfoy had to have as well.

Malfoy looked up from his contemplation and finally set the bottle aside. "No, Miss Mifflin; actually, I stopped by to offer my condolences."

Abigail clasped her hands around the napkin on her lap, wringing the fine linen tightly.

"Con--dolences?" she whispered.

Malfoy shook his head pityingly. "So tragic, your mother dying like that, just after you and Potter announced your engagement."

His eyes gleamed and his smile widened until just the tips of his teeth showed. Abigail felt the last of the blood run from her face and her whole body began to tremble with fear. Never a brilliant thinker, not even she could miss the threat Malfoy's statement implied.

"Of course it could have been so, so much worse, couldn't it Miss Mifflin? Imagine if it had been both your parents, perhaps during the ceremony," Malfoy leaned forward slightly. "Or perhaps during the reception." He tilted his head, eyes focusing somewhere distant. "Yes, can't you just see it? One second toasting the new couple, the next bang! Face down in the cake. So tragic."

And Abigail _could_ see it, her beloved parents collapsing across the table. She was staring, she knew it, but the horror of the image just wouldn't leave her. She sat as frozen as any statue, not even noticing when Malfoy slid from the table, collected his cloak and cane, and walked calmly from the restaurant.

That was how Harry found her a few minutes later, tears tracking down her face and dropping to the table unchecked.

"Miss Mifflin? Abigail?" Harry set down the dusty bottle he'd gone to the cellar to collect. Curse Rene for cornering him like that! What could possibly have happened?

"Abigail?" he asked again, this time taking one cold, trembling hand in his own. "What's wrong?"

The touch seemed to startle her, and she turned towards him with tear-stained cheeks and reddened eyes. Her mouth opened and closed several times and Harry nodded encouragingly, kneeling down next to her to hide her distress from the other diners.

"Oh...oh, Har-Mr. Potter," she finally started, voice little more than a whisper. "I'm so, so sorry, but I find, I fear, we would not suit."


End file.
